


Monster in the Attic

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Low Fantasy, Mythology References, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: There’s a monster living in the attic of my family home and she’s the most annoying bitch I've never met.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 35
Kudos: 30





	1. where the sun won't rise

**Author's Note:**

> hi I'm a bit nervous about posting this because it's an original work -- and because I'm 100% sure this will never see the light of day in terms of publication, which is why I wanted to host it here -- but as my favorite diving coach once said, fuck it just chuck it.
> 
> I'm also preparing myself to get zero engagement with this story, but that's OK because the idea that I have to leave this story to rot away in my hard drive is even worse than getting 0 hits, 0 comments, or 0 anything. I just want it out there because I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you have some fun reading it too.
> 
> Keeping the tags vague as possible because I don't want to spoil anything, but I WILL update them (and will add any potential trigger warnings in the notes before each chapter) as we go along this merry journey.
> 
> Anyway, let's get this show on the road baby.

There’s a monster living in the attic of my family home and she’s the most annoying bitch I've never met.

But I can hear her. She’s in the walls, blood and organs pulsing through every rusty pipe. Every exhalation from every vent. She's been around for a long time -- but for what? I couldn't say. She apparently has no interest in telling me, and at some point, I stop asking altogether.

I only become aware of her existence after my 13th birthday, which is coincidentally the day I start my period for the first time. Underwear brown with goo, I remember thinking _‘surely I’ve shit myself’_ the way grandma and grandpa do in their diapers when they don't know any better. Understandably horrified, I try burying my underwear in the garbage bin, only for mom to discover it later in the evening after the festivities come to a close.

Somewhat inevitably, I receive "the talk," which mostly comprises of vague euphemisms like ' _this is a symbol of your want and womanhood_ ' and ' _new responsibilities will be bestowed upon your life that you can't possibly comprehend_.' There's something to be said about mothers who crave the sound of their own voices, especially a mother like mine. And yet I bear with it.

Only at night, when I'm finally tucked into bed, do I hear _her_.

The creaking in the walls, a creak I can't recognize at all. At first I think of it as a relic of a bygone era -- our house is a minka house, just like all the other houses in the village -- and the walls are old. Older than mother. Older than father. Older than grandpa and grandma. It's overdue for renovations, but the creaking I hear is concerted, never-ending, and patterned. They come and go, back and forth, and it takes me some time to realize something is making an active effort to keep me awake. Something is waiting.

My curiosity overpowers whatever fear I might have as I get up from bed, knock on the walls, only to hear something knock back.

I don't knock again but I hear her. The monster. She sighs.

After that day, I begin to hear more of her. The panels of our wall are hollow, so I know she travels to and from where she pleases, when she pleases. Sometimes I hear her sighing in the bathroom; other times she's mulling over something in the kitchen; most frequently, she's in the attic, where she's wailing about gods-know-what. Every time I try to catch her in action, she vanishes, melting into the silence of shadows, and I'm left wondering if she were really there to begin with.

I wonder if I'm going crazy, but the monster leaves enough of herself to make me know she's here. There are crumbs of old wood from the cracks in the attic that fall to my bedroom floor. I find her footsteps in the dust from where she willows and mopes on the stairs. And yet the most damning proof of her existence is her sigh, so sullen and withered that even grandma mistakes her for me.

I tell mom and dad our house is haunted by a monster and they shrug it off and tell me not to provoke her. "Just let her go about her business," says dad, which is frankly kind of offensive because I _can't_ go about my business when she's breathing heavy in the walls of my room. So I complain and complain until he offers me the final nail in the coffin. "Why don't you just think of her as another roommate?"

It takes me time to understand neither mom nor dad believe she exists. They can't hear her. Or maybe they can but are better off pretending she's not there at all. But I _can_ hear her and I can't pretend otherwise. Because she gets louder and louder every day. How is it that my parents and grandparents can fall asleep so quickly, snores bellowing through the panels of our house, but it's me that requires at least an hour of meditation to acquire that same peace of mind to unwind and rest?

Not so surprisingly, the monster couldn't give two shits about my sleeping difficulties. She weeps into the night, even as I dream. I can hear her despairing and joylessness. She's pervasive -- implanting her presence into every facet of my life, even as I wake up in bed, even as I take my morning shit, even as I head out the door and take my bicycle to the village. She grows bolder every day, following me. I can feel her eyes weigh heavy on my shoulders, yet she refuses to show herself.

So I resign to my fate, however annoying it is. I resign myself to the idea that I may or may not have a monster haunting me. A monster who may or may not kill me in my bed, in my sleep, or while I take a shit on the toilet. I tell myself, _'if she wanted you dead, maybe she would've done so already_ ' but it never escapes me that she could be biding her time, waiting to become strong enough to kill me when she pleases. I can't see her, so now I must live at the whims of her mercy.

Yes, I'm aware this is the exact kind of complacency that befalls the moronic horror movie protagonist before her entire house burns to ash, but maybe the movies had it right. Perhaps there is a fate more powerful than free will can dictate. I can mope about the monster's existence all I want, and yet there is no escape. I _must_ listen. And I must live with her.

So I stop speaking of the monster to my parents. And they stop bringing her up. Even grandma, who still thinks it's me who's sighing and wailing into the night, gives up on her tireless crusade to preserve whatever good luck I've built up inside me. They're none-the-wiser, but I believe that's for the better. The ignorant always have better odds to survive.

After about three years, it turns out dad kind of had the right idea. The monster doesn't attack me, nor does she disturb the peace outside that incessant wailing in the attic. I assume she thinks herself part of the family, some invisible tether binding us under the roof of this old minka house. Or at least she thinks of me as family.

The creaking in the walls becomes something of a routine that lulls me to sleep. Her exhalations start sounding like lullabies in the night. I start envisioning my life with the monster in the picture. She reminds me of my old uncle, a man I only see during the new year, who comes to the village to offer prayer and prayer only. He tells me each visit about his travels around the world outside our gates, but he never stays long enough for me to ask any questions.

But that's alright. Because I have my monster. And though I find no malevolence in her steps, I know she'll follow me wherever I go until the day I die.

I don't ignore her, and yet I have no expectation she will speak because she will not show herself to me. I know the old folktales the elders tell are alive for a reason -- to warn of the dangers that befall the women who speak to monsters and listen to their cries.

"Do not listen deeply to the sad tales of sad ghosts," says our village elder Inari. "For once they take hold, they drag you to the deepest pits of your own despair."

Grandpa and grandma tell me something similar, but the truth is I never cared for folktales from old geezers whose only know-how is to get high on hemp and drunk on liquor, preaching their glory days to a captive audience of family who listen out of obligation.

I don't care--until today.

Because the sun doesn't rise in the morning and the clouds have fallen, cloaking our village in red hot mist. The sky is impaled like a skewer, bleeding troughs like a watercolor painting gone wrong. Everything is red, red, red, so ominous and longing it looks like something out of an old Kurosawa movie. I can hear the screams of women over the lake, the monster quivering beside me. And while I'm tempted to throw my head back at laugh at the absurdity, I don't.

Our village is called the hidden treasure of the mountains because it takes two trains, one bus, followed by an hour's trek up the pathway to reach. Intrepid travelers must fill out a paper application, mail it to the village, and wait for an answer from the elders that takes almost half a year to come, if it ever does.

It gives the elders something to stay busy with, but it's for good reason too. Our village is renowned for its beauty. Untouched waterfalls, lush green foliage, a lake that turns red at dawn and dusk. National Geographic called it the blood lake, and up until two years ago, no one knew of it until an Instagram model named Baebaesoo came long and left her lasting impression with a selfie. All it took was one photo and suddenly our village became the go-to tourist spot for casual and intrepid travelers alike.

My job is now to bring their bags up the pathway with Donkey, our family ass. It gives me a chance to step outside the village, however short it is, and it gives Donkey a chance to graze by the meadow outside the gates.

But he's fussy today, no doubt sensing something foul in the air with the sun gone. I pat him on the head while he trudges up the side of the cliffs, back strapped down with travel bags. He brays and I offer him a carrot, which he sniffs and bites with a crunch. Stubborn is as stubborn does, until he's bribed with the prospect of food.

The travelers behind me stumble this way and that, each one looking more exhausted than the next. A white man, his Korean wife, and their son, the latter content to take his time photographing the view on his old Konica Hexar. I've learned enough English to hold a conversation, but he seems uninterested in speaking to me, which is a shame because I have so much to ask about his camera.

None of them have complained about the trek, but I know they're drained.

"How long have you been doing this?" asks the man. He asks a lot of questions. From what I understand, he's a journalist, which means the curiosity probably comes with the territory. He's also American, which means he talks a lot without saying much at all. I don't mind, though. I like talking, and I especially like talking to new people.

"About two years, but Donkey's been carrying weight up the mountain long before I was born," I say, whistling a cheerful tune as we make it past the old stream in the mountain wall and the pack of starlings in the trees that sound like they're laughing at us. "He knows this mountain better than I do."

His son puts down his camera, letting it hang from his neck, "You named your donkey Donkey?"

It's the first he's addressed me so far, looking very much amused at the revelation. I notice that his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He takes after his mom much more than his dad, looking much more delicate and fair. A pretty boy, through and through.

"He was named Donkey before I was born," I explain and he offers a look so mirthless one has to wonder if he's really a teenage boy, or some great warrior of the past with a grudge to tend. "I think it suits him--like he should've been Donkey before he was a donkey."

"I'll be honest. I don't know what that means," he says, turning back to look at the view again.

Apparently he sees something I don't because he immediately clamps his mouth shut, picks up his camera, and takes a photo of the pathway his parents and I are moving up.

"I can get out your way way," I tell him, but he shakes his head. I know he's my age, but he's strangely cool compared to the boys I know in the village. No over-cheer or fuss at all. It gives the impression that he's constantly thinking about something when that probably isn't the case at all.

I motion to the camera, "Do you want to be a photographer?"

"It's just a hobby," he says. "Y'know, the same way you do this."

"This isn't a hobby for me," I tell him. "This is my job."

He considers it, quietly, "So what's your hobby?"

I wonder what he'd say if I told him about the monster in my attic, but decide not to spook him too much. He is, after all, in a foreign land with foreign people, and the last thing I want to do is mislead him into thinking I'm foreshadowing his demise like a horror movie NPC. Not to mention, calling my relationship with the monster "a hobby" sounds pretty pathetic when you get past the absurdity.

"I guess I don't have one."

I turn, trucking up the pathway with Donkey, but he spins around behind me to take one more photograph before walking right past me and rejoining his parents. He doesn't spare me a second glance, but from what I can surmise, I've probably turned into something of a tourist attraction too.

By the time we reach the village, the sky's still lit, no sun to be found whatsoever. The husband and wife completely look past the village, probably grateful that they've finally reached flat land.

Only the boy stays, stuffing his camera away to stare at the sky, the minka houses past the archway, and the elders perusing the village center with their long pipes and hemp.

"What's with the gates?" He asks, and it's a fair question.

There are at least a dozen carvings here: the old god of fertility in all her breasty glory sitting in a meadow filled with deer and flowers, the god of war and her bow and arrow, pointed at the vengeful sprite of animosity and chaos and her handful of poison apples. Most of these carvings are older than me, some older than even the elders. It's a lot to unpack and there's not enough time in the day--not enough time in the week.

"To keep out the mountain cats," I tell him, hoping it's enough to sate whatever curiosity he has and apparently it is because he accepts it with a shrug before passing through alongside his mom and dad.

Elder Inari is waiting for them at the village square, where he points to their lodgings by the lake. It'll be some time before the sun sets, if it ever will considering it's not there at all, but the family will be here for days to come, so they have time to spare. Donkey, though, is antsy enough to nudge me in the back. He looks tired.

We drop off their bags, bid them good night, and the man tips me a Benjamin before returning to his wife. Donkey nudges me again, but I can't quite shake the feeling of something staring at me. I think it must be the monster, but as I turn around to take one last look at the lake, I see that it's the boy with his camera.

"By the way, my name is Warren," he says, jogging to me. Under this light, I can see freckles on his face. "And...I probably should've told you earlier, but you have something on your shoulders."

I instinctively look down and check, but there's nothing there at all. Before I get a chance to ask him what he means, he whips around and turns in for the night.

Donkey nudges me again, but it's not time to go home yet so I offer him another carrot before heading to the village center, where Elder Inari is waiting for me. He's smoking his pipe now, that smile on his face greasy and tired as he meets my gaze.

"Elder Saki passed last night," he says.

"Shit. That's a shame," I mumble. Elder Saki is my favorite elder. She smokes like there's no tomorrows, and my peers call her crass, but one man's crass is another woman's humor. She liked to laugh a lot from what I remember.

"It was peaceful. In her sleep," he says, stroking his beard. The revelation brings me some relief. "You're to take her body to the mountaintop for burial after the ceremony. Her family will wait for you at dawn."

I salute him, warily, and it's enough to make him smile, "Don't look so glum."

"What can I say? Carrying the dead is a glum job."

"It's an honorable job."

"So says the one delegating."

He hums a nifty little tune, smiling like he knows some secret I'm not privy to. "If you grow old like me, surely you'll understand," he says, and I roll my eyes, tugging Donkey towards the western bend.

"Somehow I doubt that," I reply.

When I return home, I find the monster scowling in the attic.

I can feel her restless gaze of disappointment and wariness as I come to sit by the wall where there hangs a mirror and an old cuckoo clock. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," I sing, hoping to instigate her appearance, only to hear her sigh. I know she can hear me -- she can hear everything in this house.

"Sorry."

It's actually kind of amazing that I've gotten to know this monster. I know what she thinks, what she feels, and why she feels them. I've never seen her face, never heard her voice, and yet I know. And I know she cares nothing for my cursing, my profanities, and my brattiness. Perhaps because she lives in a plane of existence where feeling is persona non grata. Or perhaps because she has something else to worry about.

Whatever emotion she does feel comes in deep sighs and heavy exhalations. She despairs.

In a way, I feel sorry for her. I know she's waiting, but I don't know if what she's waiting for will ever come. "I wish I could meet you," I say, peeling at the paint on the walls until they're sitting in the palm of my hands like tiny pretzels.

The walls inhale, _exhale_. Sometimes I feel like she is the house. "It seems like you don't want to meet me though," I go on, listening to the tick of the clock, incessant and loud now that the day has come to an end. It's a constant reminder that I'm getting older--literally, in minutes to come, I'll be 16. Old enough to drive a car. Old enough to start dating. Sixteen is the age of womanhood. Symbolically, at least. But what does that mean when all the boys in the village are due to wed someone else? Childhood sweethearts forevermore. Born in this village only to die here too.

Knowing my luck, my period will begin again, another countdown of my womanhood and its finiteness. "Happy birthday to me," I say, watching the clock strike 12--the shrill screech of the cuckoo as it pops out of its hiding place. It goes like that, shrieking once, twice--twelve times until I realize it's true. Time's up.

"Happy birthday to to me," I sing, softly. "Happy birthd--"

And for the first time ever, I see her in the mirror.

Her skin is pale as rice cakes, eyes wide--red and veiny like an angry _onryo_ \--a maiden fair, bloody-eyed and vengeful in perpetuity. Her hair hangs over me, her hands resting on my shoulders. I'm startled by the immediate sight of her, but I stiffen my back because I've read of stories that say monsters can smell fear. Monsters can smell hesitation.

And yet.

For the first time ever, I see her smile. It's a crooked, uneasy smile, one that belies something sinister and foul. Yet I pity her because I too have a crooked smile, uneven and ugly. Just when I think she's about to vanish for good, she cocks her head to the side, studying my face.

And I hear her speak.

"Happy birthday, Nana."

I can't stand the sound of her voice, so wilting, shrill, and old that I feel like I already know who she is, where she's from, and how she came to be. "What do you want?" I ask, puzzled by her touch because though I can see her wrapping her arms around me in the mirror, I can't quite feel her.

"I want to tell my story," she answers.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I pause, waiting for her to say more, but there she is, smiling at me in the mirror with that crooked smile as her arms snake around my neck. "What happens after you tell your story?" I ask, and yet I have a sinking feeling I already know the answer.

"I die."

I nod in understanding, waiting. "And if you don't tell it?"

"Then you die."


	2. live, die, repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All monsters are to die once their stories are told,” she explains. “And so I will tell you three of mine own, and you will hear them well. One tale of betrayal, one of vengeance, and one of love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the support guys T_T im very excited about this story....

“All monsters are to die once their stories are told,” she explains, sounding flighty and wistful in equal measure. “And so I will tell you three of mine own, and you will hear them well. One tale of betrayal, one of vengeance, and one of love. But first, you must bring me three things. The first is a bond of trust—boy or girl, it matters not. I will know if it is true, and if it is, I will tell you my story. If it is not, I will strike them, and that will be the end.”

“Why should I bring you anything?” I ask, chewing on the inside of my lip until I draw blood. I suck on the wound—one that tastes of copper and rust—until I feel it go raw. “How should I know you won’t trick me and strike them down as sacrifice at your own volition?”

How should I know she won't do as she pleases? How should I know she's not lying? Monsters are not known for their honesty and she is a far cry from being anything other than a monster. And yes, I may fear for my life -- I fear that I will die if I do not hear her sorry, pitiable tales -- but that is nothing like the fear of having another life in my hands.

"Oh, silly girl."

The truth is, I can't think of a single person in this damned village that I trust. Not my mother, not my father, and not even my grandparents, gray and wiry as they are. One might think they must've done something to betray that trust, and yet it is not so. I'm afraid was born untrusting of them. As if I were ejected from the womb with a pit of anxiety in my gut. Even if my trust in them were true, I doubt I would bring them to the monster.

“Monsters always keep their promises,” so she says, floating merrily towards the window. She willows about like a ghost, which is what she is, feet never touching the floor, and yet I’m certain she has them. "Monsters do not lie."

Sure, says the monster.

And yet, for whatever reason, I know what she says is true. She does not lie, monster that she is, and though I am tempted to bolt for the door--to pretend this never happened--I stay in fear of what death may come. "You can't just sweeten the deal and tell me your story without this...bond?" I ask, and she giggles, sweet and chaste like a woodland sprite. It's an odd sound, one I do not expect from a monster that looks the way she does.

“Your bond of trust will tether to you this world," she goes on, sighing.

“Tether?”

“The soul is unwise--fickle as can be,” she says, smiling that crooked smile again as she turns to meet my gaze. “It must stay grounded to your world by other means, lest you lose yourself in the stories I tell, or lest you wish the stories to become you."

"Lest I wish the stories to become me?" I am a broken record, repeating exactly what she says even though I know exactly what she means. "Seems like a high price to pay for something worth nothing."

"Stories are worth more than their weight in gold," she says, looking out the window. "Stories are worth more than treasures unknown."

I wonder what she sees, but I decide not to mention it as I hug my knees to my chest, "What about the other items?"

"I require water for my second story."

"Water," I say, feeling a bit more settled. "I can do that."

"But it must be tempered with faith."

\--and whatever ease I've built up in the past few minutes immediately vanishes. " _What does that even mean_ ," I hiss, rubbing my temples, only to come to a stop when I realize she _knows_. "Wait."

And before I can confront her, she goes. "I am older than you--than your father, your father before him, and his father before him. I am older than this village of yours," she says, flighty and tired. "And so I know. I know what you know--and I know what comes."

She _knows_. I’d assumed that this monster was no omniscient force. Monsters in stories were powerful entities, but this was a _real_ monster. Surely she had gaping holes of weaknesses. She could not see all, and yet she knows. She knows the truth.

"And for the third story?"

She doesn’t waver, “For the third, a lover."

"A lover," I repeat again. "And if I have no such thing?"

"Then you die."

I consider it, quietly, ruminating on what it would look like if someone were to find me dead in this attic. "Mom and dad would be _pissed_ ," I say to no one in particular as I chew on my nailbuds. I can't die here--I can only die in the mountains, buried into the earth from whence I came. But if this monster knows the truth, then surely she knows that too. "What dies in these mountains," I start, and she looks at me, eyes bulging, blood streaming.

"Lives to stand another day," she finishes.

"But my life will end for good," I say, slowly. "If I'm to die here with you."

She hears. She's listening. She doesn't nod, but I know her answer to be true.

"The elders would surely be angry to know I've passed in this attic," I say.

"They don't know anger," she hisses--and it's the first time I've seen her break out of that dreamy state. That plane of indifference, so cold and casual as if nothing could faze her, not even the end of the world as we know. "None here can understand it--they may indulge in it, but they will never see the depths of it, not in this lifetime, not in any lifetime to come."

She's right. Our village is the village of smiles. A village of harmony and joy. There is no anger that beseeches them here. It may be the closest thing to a utopia--untouched by the wears of war and the wears of time.

"Who are you?" I ask, finally, after the silence settles too long.

She breaks into a smile, crooked and coarse like her lips have been dragged through a strainer, “I am a monster in the attic--a monster that seeks to tell her tale," she says, sighing that sigh I know so well.

"That's not really answering the question," I tell her.

"What is it you seek? My name?"

"Well, yes. Do you have one?"

"Live long enough and you'll learn them," she says.

"You have more than one?"

"I have more than you can count," she says. "Learn them and maybe you'll become a monster just like me."

I get the feeling I don't get a say in the matter.

And as if she hears me, she laughs, moving towards the window—vanishing into the light of the moon right before the outside world begins. I have to wonder if she were really there at all, but I can still feel her exhalation in the walls. I guess, in the end, even monsters have to sleep.

*

When morning comes, dad is waiting at the mountaintop in his little log cabin, if one can even call it that. It looks more like a shack built from spare parts, big enough for a window, a table, and a single stool. He complains often about the aches in his back, and I worry for him, but he hasn't spared a thought to quitting his job any time soon.

They call him the keeper of the mountains, which is a somewhat inconvenient title given the thanklessness of his job, which essentially boils down to digging up holes in the earth to bury the dead.

And there it is, waiting for me. A hole in the ditch, a pile of stones, and some old driftwood. Donkey trucks along the path to the shack, but he’s been getting wearier the farther he goes. He takes more breaks these days—and though I’m content to wait for him, I know it means he’s probably on his last legs.

"Late," says dad, whistling a cheerful tune as he takes down Elder Saki from Donkey's back. "Would do you some good to be punctual."

Donkey immediately collapses to his knees, braying. "He's been slowing down. I think he's getting sick," I explain, knowing it will do me no good. And I'm right because dad immediately goes off on some tangent about leaving earlier in the day. If mom loves the sound of her own voice, dad loves his own twofold. Even as he lowers Elder Saki's body into the ditch, even as he takes a breath to stretch out his back, even as he turns to me and offers a smile the reeks of insincerity.

"Another one of your friends is leaving today," he says, and for a moment I think he's talking about the boy visiting from America. "Hana--Jaki's girl. She's going to attend a concert in Tokyo."

Ah, to live in a village where it becomes a noteworthy story every time someone leaves. "Fascinating," I say, watching as dad covers Elder Saki's body in dirt. "I'd like to go to a concert too one day."

He pauses, "You will."

It's a promise he'll never keep. Mom and dad are adamant I stay in this village forever--until the day I die. Because our village is peaceful. Prosperous. Perfect. No one can convince me otherwise, and the tourists that come are a constant reminder of that. They opine its beauty; they indulge in the respite from their city-life. And yet they always go. They never stay. Granted, the elders are never keen on newcomers, none of the passing faces ever bother to ask to live here anyway.

I always wonder if I'm missing out, and yet I cannot help but feel guilty whenever I think on it. I am treated well here--by mom, dad, and the village folk alike. They treat me like family, even if we are not one blood.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Nana?"

“Do you trust me?” I ask, thinking about the monster and what she'd said. If one bond were to tether me to this earth, it would surely be a bond of family--a bond of blood. And yet she had said boy or girl--and dad is a man. I certainly have to wonder if she's pushing me in some direction, offering me a glimpse of what her expectations are without actually saying them aloud. So I take a breath, and go on, "Would you trust me with your life?"

He pauses, “Of course I would.” But I have to wonder if that’s true. As much as dad is away these days, I love him. In the off chance that he dies because I hesitate--because I'm unsure, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.

He laughs--throaty and deep, "You're my blood--my only daughter." And that's a fact of life, not a reason why our bond is forged. Another reason why I can't send him to the attic.

I smile in spite of my unease. Dad has a gift of sounding completely insincere and sincere at the same time, "But would you trust me if I weren't?" I go on, crouched over the ditch.

"Of course."

I frown, "You say that but I don't think you mean it."

"Where is this coming from?" He wipes away the beads of sweat that's beginning to form on his forehead. Under the sun, he looks tan and lean. His age betrays his face, young and spritely as ever. "Mom asks how your readings are going over dinner, you don't say a word, and suddenly you're asking about trust."

It's more defensive than I expect, and for a moment I'm startled by his tone. "I just have a lot on my mind," I tell him.

"You're 16. There shouldn't be anything on your mind except having fun," he replies. "And maybe boys."

Boys, huh. I swear dad is the only person in the village who actively tries to get his daughter dating. He wants me to squeeze in as much practice beforehand because that where all the "joy is found." Whatever that means. Not so surprisingly, his pushiness has the exact opposite effect. It's not that I take no interest in dating--I just haven't met anyone worth pursuing. Everyone here knows everyone, and it gives it a weirdly familial effect. We may not be bonded by blood, and yet I cannot look at anyone here in this village other than family.

But something comes to me, a slow revelation. "If we were strangers," I start, digging my fingers into the earth, "how would I earn your trust?"

"Why, you'd have to tell me a secret," he says, a glint in his eye as he winks my way. It's so corny, but it's the kind of thing that makes me smile too. "A secret that no one else knows."

I consider it, taking a seat on the ground, watching the earth consume Elder Saki whole. "A secret, huh." It makes more sense than I expect, but now I have to wonder what kind of secret I would offer.

"Has to be a good secret too," says dad, whistling a cheerful tune.

I wrinkle my nose, "Oh yeah? And what makes a good secret?"

He tosses a shovel-full of dirt into my face, "It has to be something no one else knows."

I cough, dirt exhuming from my nose like dust, "Dad, I'm gonna kill you." But as I try and get up, I trip right over Elder Saki's body, only to fall to the side with a grunt.

"Oi, don't disrespect the dead," he sings, skipping over to the other side.

I glare at him before lowering my gaze. It’s a strange thing to be buried naked in the ground, and yet I’ve seen stranger. Dad doesn't say much as he covers her up. To and back from whence she came, another indelible truth.

Donkey brays, coming over to a full stop before me.

“I wonder if you know,” I say, patting him on the head. He settles his head into my lap, breathing haggard and slow. “Oh, to be innocent and unknowing.” He brays in response and I offer him a carrot, one that he turns his nose from. "If only."

Donkey is tired. I can feel it. I wonder if he knows he’ll be buried in this mountain just like Elder Saki.

*

It’s late afternoon when I return to the village. I find the American family perusing the main square, where Elder Inari has taken to showing them the shrine. It’s an old replica of the shrine that once stood at the village square, but it’s since been replaced with new plaster and plywood. You can pay a quarter, or whatever spare change you have, if you want to pray at the altar to some unknowing god who probably couldn’t care less about you.

Warren is nowhere to be found, so I decide to try my luck at the lake. I’m stopped by two of my peers before I can get very far. I call them dumb and dumber because I once caught them trying to scale the gates with a pairs of shears. (They both fell. Both broke their legs. Both were stuck on bedrest for weeks. Both recovered with a limp only to be beat by their parents.) Punishment fits the crime.

Surely, they would’ve been better off at an actual hospital, but the elders had been adamant that they stay. And what they said always went. The only fundamental truth we know. Respect the elders, live and die by their words.

I wonder if I could take one of them to the monster. Their utility was lost the day they decided to scale those walls and their parents never let them forget that. As farmers, it was a killing blow. Now all they do is smoke with the elders, loiter in the square, and talk about the girls they date. It’s all so terribly, terribly uninspiring.

“Have you seen Warren?”

“Warren? You go by first name basis now?” says Taijou, the fatter of the two—with a mole underneath his eye shaped like a kernel of rice. “Oughtta be careful—Elder Inari don’t like us gettin’ chummy with strangers. Says they’re not to be trusted. If you wanna date one, you’ll prol’ly hafta run.”

"Yeah, run? Like you did?"

Taijou's smile immediately vanishes from his face, "Oi, fuck you too."

I shrug, “Whatever. Where is he?"

Mowen grins, greasy and broken, “I’ll tell ya but it’s gonna cost somethin'."

Neither of them care for their future, when their future is dictated here. To live and die, to live and die again. “Ugh.” I can hardly look at their faces without feeling my insides recoil. I don’t mind their laziness -- to each thine own -- but the way they revel in it as if it's some embellishment of their worth makes me sick to my stomach.

I give them the Benjamin. It’s pristine, fresh—but in a day’s time, that’ll run through their hands, someone else’s hands, and I’m sure it’ll run through my hands a few more times before it inevitably stops at Elder Inari.

“He’s at the lake,” says Mowen.

The lake is half a mile out—one half fenced in by our perimeters. Only here can you see how expansive it is—how far it reaches. These gates protect us from wild animals, but one has to wonder if it’s protecting us from something far more sinister.

I find Warren by the dock, taking photos on his camera, “The sunsets here are really something else.”

"Something else?" I ask.

“It’s a good thing,” he says, and I nod, slowly as he clicks his camera again.

I wonder if he knows. Surely, he must. The elders always said that cameras were a gateway to another dimension, but I never put any stock into their superstitions. They're antiquated, outdated, and their only means to curb the limit of fun we're allowed to have in this village.

“Warren.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I want to show you.”

He laughs a little—it’s curt and short, “You’re not gonna, like, take me somewhere and then murder me right?”

I laugh, but he’s hitting too close to home. “No, I just wanted to show you—um, a secret.”

“A secret?” He blinks, “You mean you wanna tell me a secret right?"

“No, I mean show you.” And when I see that unconvinced look on his face, I go on. “I think it would make for a really good photograph.”

*

Warren is lanky, but pretty in a way that most boys aren’t. His face is delicate, and almost everything about his disposition is delicate too. It gives him an almost vase-like effect, as I help him scale the mountain at dusk. He doesn't like asking for help, but takes it anyway whenever I offer him a hand.

“This seems dangerous,” he says, coming to a full stop at the cliff overlooking the lake. And yet, he unveils his camera, taking a snapshot before lowering it again. "But I guess--what's life without a little danger right?"

I smile a little, “We're here."

At the sight of the shack, he gulps down a breath, “Jeez--that was some trip."

“You can stop there,” I say. And he does, flopping to the ground.

I glance at my watch. Two minutes to 12.

“What are we doing here?” he asks, chuckling. “You gonna bury me here or something?”

I dig through the dirt, grime—in a day’s time, Elder Saki’s body has already been corrupted with earth—maggots eating through her skin. Her eyes. They always go first into the night. "She passed yesterday," I say, and before I can continue, I hear some rustling--Warren's already jerked up.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses. “What the fuck-- _I’m out of here_.”

“Just _wait_.”

“This is fucking crazy—that's--that's--that's a corpse,” he murmurs, as I start covering her up.

One minute to 12.

I push back the dirt over her face until she's completely buried again. I press a single finger to my lip, looking his way. "Be quiet and watch," I tell him, but it only incites something of anger as he glares my way.

“There’s a dead body—and you don’t even care. You don’t even—”

"You've never seen the dead?" I ask--and surely it must be true because he immediately shuts up and pauses.

He's so sheltered, almost pitifully so. I've been bringing bodies up the mountain since I was old enough to ride on Donkey. Since I was old enough to understand what death is. "I'm going to show you something," I tell him, crouched over the dirt. "A secret, OK? I promise no harm will come your way."

He's silent. Waiting.

When time's up, I start digging again, but there’s a cry that pierces the air--a cry below the earth that tremors deep.

“What was that?” He asks. "Is that--is that--"

Elder Saki's body is gone.

In its place, a baby—flesh and bones, borne from the earth in purple and blues. It’s almost alien, so small and supple you could probably mistake it for a cut of bread. Covered in the wet silks of earth.

It's wailing.

What dies in these mountains can never die, I think, and so this is the first secret I will tell him.

His fingers are shaking as he lifts his camera to snap a photograph, the flash burning bright into the night. "What the fuck," he utters, and what the fuck indeed as I cradle the baby into my arms. Now he knows the truth--now there's an undeniable bond of trust that's formed between us.

"What the actual fuck," he says again, snapping another photo.

And now I know.

"I need a favor," I tell him, as the baby wails into my shoulder.

He pauses, studying my face in the dark as he sets his camera aside. He looks uneasy, "What is it?"

I take a breath, as the wails come to a still.

"There's a story I need to hear," I explain. "In my attic, where there's a monster."

Something slow dawns on his face as he meets my gaze and I shudder to think he's already rejected me outright. But instead, he pauses, taking a breath before meeting my gaze.

"You can see her too?"


	3. black boar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In my first story, I am a hunter.”
> 
> And this is the tale of my betrayal.

Warren and I don’t sleep that night.

Whatever time we spend trekking down the mountainside is completely enveloped in silence until we reach the edge of the lake, where the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. He won't speak -- he won't even look me in the eye -- and it's only when the last bastion of nightfall melts into sunlight that he takes a breath and breaks.

"Your village is...really strange."

I don't agree, though I laugh anyway because it's an absurdly obvious thing to say aloud. One man's strange is another man's normal. Just as I find those endless strip malls of Los Angeles unconscionably strange--though I see the merit in them too. I suppose I would find anything outside these gates strange and in that way, he may have a leg-up on me.

"That was amazing," he exhales, completely breathless. "That was--" And then he pauses, turning to meet my gaze. "I've never seen anything like that before."

As I study him, I realize his cheeks are perpetually pink, like a cherub in those old western paintings. And when he talks, he does it with such fervor and joy I nearly forget he's talking about Elder Saki's corpse. He starts asking me how it works (like his dad, he asks a lot of questions), but I don't know the science behind it, only that it is true. I don't have many answers to offer him and he seems relatively content with that fact, which is a far cry from what he seemed like before. (Despondent and wary.)

"So your dad--he's going to collect her at noon."

"Yes."

"And--she'll be OK?"

"We've no natural predators inside these gates," I explain to him, feeling somewhat tired though the explanation offers something of a reprieve for myself as well. I never really wondered what came of the babies that laid dormant in the dirt.

"Who takes care of her?"

"Her family."

"Ah."

And therein comes the pause. He stops, suddenly, because he already knows what's going to come next. "That monster you mentioned," he says, looking my way with a vague, dead-eyed look in his face. "Well, I'd like to think of them as ghosts--is that alright with you?"

"That's fine."

He nods, as if affirming this for himself, "I've seen them ever since I was little. Men, women, children. I saw-- _her_ \--looming over your shoulders when we were climbing the mountain with mom and dad the other day." He taps on the flash of his camera. "I can see her through the lens, but she's not showing up on any of the film I'm using."

I smile, wryly. I know he's not looking for an explanation, but I decide to offer him one anyway. "Well, she's shy." And it's the sort of stupid thing that makes him smile too as he shifts his gaze back to the lake.

There's a shriek of laughter--and suddenly I see two very familiar faces making their way down the pathway towards us. Taijou and Mowen. They're smiling those greasy smiles of theirs, passing right by us to hunker down by the shore, no doubt to smoke their hemp and get high.

"Don't you have a gate to mind?" I call out.

Taijou sticks his tongue out, "That gate can mind itself when it's locked."

"Elder Inari won't be happy to hear that."

"Whatever, ugly."

He just ignores me as he turns back to his better half.

"What'd he say?"

"He said I'm ugly," I reply, turning back to the sunrise. Amazing how I've heard that same uninspiring insult enough times to let it bounce off me. "Don't worry, they won't bother you. They just want to be left alone." Left alone to waste away what's left of their days. Rinse, repeat, recycle. All the world could burn, but those two would never change.

Warren arches a brow, looking at me through the lens of his camera. The flash goes off.

"I think you're really beautiful," he says, tucking the camera away.

I smile and watch as his cheeks turn pink while he turns to look the other way at some inconspicuous corner of the lake that I'm probably not privy to. I'm content, I think, though it belies some inauspicious feeling of guilt too. The problem is I should feel a flutter in my belly -- I've read enough books about teenagedom to know how it _should_ feel -- but all I can do is think about it and feel absolutely nothing at all.

It's all so terribly, terribly pitiful.

*

When mom and dad are away, I sneak Warren into my family home.

It's a stroke of luck, I think, that I've managed to smuggle him past my sleeping grandparents, snoring away into the thick of that spring heat. I can hear them through the panels in the wall, and yet they cannot hear me, not even when I lower the steps to the attic and usher Warren up before following right behind on his heel.

The dry heat comes like a punch to my lungs as I make my way to the window and rip it open. "You have to say the right words to meet her," I explain, somehow knowing without explanation or cause.

"OK." Warren seems up to the task. "What're they?"

" _I wish to meet you_."

"I wish to meet you?-- _ **AH**_!"

She manifests instantly before us. Hair, dress, followed by that unforgettably horrifying face. Warren studies her from a distance, swallowing a scream as his knees buckle underneath his weight. He collapses to his butt and instinctively worms his way across the floor until he's pushed up against the far end of the room where the wall meets his back.

"Holy shit," he sputters, clutching his chest. "OK, OK. This is...this is real."

"Fear not, boy. No harm will come to you," says the monster, floating by the window.

I come to Warren, offering him a hand, and he takes it meekly. He's completely flustered and pink, gaze fixed to the ground as if there's some crack there neither I nor the monster can see. He can't look at the monster -- he can't even look my way -- and it's probably for good reason. She isn't easy on the eyes at all.

"I see that your bond is true, girl," says the monster.

I nod.

"You--you don't look scared," he says. "Mom always said the stupidest people were the bravest."

"Why should I be scared if I know there's no danger?"

He scoffs, "How would you know? She's a _monster_."

"Just because she's a monster, does that make her unworthy of my trust?" I glance over at her, but see that she's looking outside the window, those bloodied eyes of hers darting towards the sunlight. Strangely enough, I feel defensive of this monster--as if whatever insult he hurls her way offers me great offense too. "She can't help how she looks. She simply is." And then I look back at Warren, who's still staring at me with disbelief. "She won't hurt you. Trust me."

"You don't know that," he replies, but the truth is--I do.

It's so silly, so inconsequential and futile to explain with words, in a language that's far from mine own. Because I feel a kinship with this monster in the attic. Because when I look into her bloodied eyes, I recognize something in them that I recognize in myself, perhaps because I've known her for many, many years.

Yes, I suppose I trust this monster, with my life and more, and if that should make me foolish then so be it.

But apparently he's already made up his mind because he takes a seat on the ground, bowing his head low like he's ready for prayer. And I follow suit, taking a seat next to him while the monster floats over to us.

She doesn't take a breath, just meets my gaze with all the resolve in the world.

"In my first story, I am a hunter."

*

And this is the tale of my betrayal.

The mountains are my home, but they are also the nesting grounds to some of the foulest creatures of the night one can imagine. Never mind the wildcats and bears, we've predators of a bygone era that roam these woods. Sinewy creatures made of muscle and mucus that look not unto like human-ilk, but utterly bereaved of any human characteristics. They may have our eyes and noses, but they have not our honor. They feed on the dead, they prey on the weak, and they hunt humans just like you—just like me.

My father is a blacksmith and I carry with me two blades he has taken over 10 years to forge. One longsword and one shortsword, both bathed in tomes of old magics. One is for defense, the other is for carving. One is my pride, the other an extension of my right hand. On my hip sits a basket of arrows and I carry the bow that my mother made—delicate redwood blessed by the temple maidens of old.

All my weapons are blessed, so that whatever beast should meet their end will be freed of the evils that consume them.

And it's true—there are many evils lurking in this forest. Many evils, many goods. For every mushroom to rescue the spry of an old codger, there is wicked sprite hiding among leaves. For every redwood tree planted by the first sons, there is an oni lurking. For every evil that is slain, another evil is to be reborn. It is a careful, precise balance—older than our recorded history, older than man himself.

My family is the keeper of this balance, and I am the executor.

My mornings begin before the sun can break over the horizon. It begins when the crickets awaken from their earten bunkers, followed by the sparrows—but once the sparrows sing their summer songs, there are no crickets left to cry, and then I know it is time.

I walk through forest and foliage, taking stock of all the side trails until I meet the main road, where the village crops up in the distance just as the sun starts peeking through, a dream of morning forevermore.

It is empty, it is solemn, it is peaceful. The people have yet to waken from their slumber—the people, except a stranger in blue robes with a ministerial cap sitting atop his head. Our village collects many visitors, but rarely are they military men.

He smiles at me, wrinkles forming in the corner of his eyes. They say your eyes can tell a story, but I believe the wrinkles around them speak more to the kind of person you are and the kind of household you grew up in. “Good morning, hunter,” he says, fanning himself with his writing board. “You _are_ the hunter of this village, are you not?”

“I suppose the blades gave it away,” I reply, coming to a full stop where the roads are salted.

He laughs. He has a nice laugh, deep and full from his stomach. “I’m looking for someone to catch me a boar,” he says.

I try not to snort. He looks so pitifully, pitifully lost here.

“Try the butcher."

“Ah, not that kind of boar. I speak of one wreaking havoc in the mountains,” he states. “One with eyes as red as the blood moon. Word is it disguises itself as a fair temple maiden only to feast on the flesh of children in the night. Lord Shitori sent some of his best men across the mountainside to exterminate the beast—and so they’ve gone without return for almost two months." And then he stops, studying my face before lowering his gaze to the blades on my hips. "I hear of a hunter in this village that has experience with foul beasts like this.”

“That boar you speak of is no beast, but a creature plagued with foul magic,” I tell him. “No normal blade will slay him true. Better men can try, but they'll be left dead sooner than they can blink."

“So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest you put out notice," I tell him. "Tell your people to stop inviting fair temple maidens into their home after dusk."

"That cannot do," he says, and he blocks my path as I try to pass him. "These people have been taught the lessons of old. Ignore the rice beggar at your doorstep and the wrath of gods will smite you when you least expect it. You cannot undo an entire generation of teachings with one notice."

"We were once taught that the gods erected the sun every morning on the back of their naginitas. Now we know the sun rises on its own volition. Lessons can be undone."

"Please. There must be another way. Shall I ask my men to bless their blades?"

Ah, so he wants the easy way out. I know now that if I am to reject his pleas, he'll simply seek out another hunter who knows no better.

I fall silent.

His face contorts into something of understanding, “Ah—I see. I’ll not ask a blacksmith the secrets of his forge, nor a fisherman the nature of his bait, so I’ll not ask the hunter the nature of her hunt.” And it's an odd revelation to admit aloud because he's completely missing the point. "What must I do to hire you for the job?"

I glance at the pouch hanging from his waist, so fat and looming it sounds like a call to arms. “How much are you offering on the bounty?”

The corners of his lips tip up into a smile, “If it is a matter of coin, have no fear. I will pay as much as you ask.”

"That's a dangerously stupid proposition."

"Too true, but that boar is far more dangerous. Four children have vanished into the black in two weeks alone." All at once, his skin pales. He looks _gray_ , as if the image alone were enough to conjure some rotten illness inside him. "Have you heard of the saying of the rotten peach? Once one turns, the others fall in line, and thus the basket that holds them all becomes unworthy of saving."

For a moment I think he's speaking of his village, only to realize he's speaking of the boar. “Forgive my imprudence, but foul magic does not propagate the same way your silly peaches do. It simply is. It simply does. It is older than I—older than you—older than this village. The same way the sun exists, but we do not question the men who die under its breath."

“And you should simply hope that those four children are the least of our worries?”

“The children are dead. One cannot change that course of time. If you should slay this boar, its evil will simply find another host.”

“And how can you stop that?”

“You cannot.” It’s an exhausting thing to explain to a man who won't listen—and I decide to be truthful for fibbing has burned me one too many times in the past. “That’s the balance of the mountain forest.”

He considers it as a bead of sweat trickles down from his brow. He looks so pitifully out of place in those ridiculous blue robes. He is a winter man dressed for summer. “Very well then. I suppose there are elements outside my realm of knowledge that I’ve yet to possess.”

He meets my gaze, holds it unwavering, and I find myself thinking perhaps his resolve is the most handsome thing about him.

“If coin is what you seek, how much do you ask for, girl?”

“Three hundred gold pieces—I ask for one hundred upfront, and should I complete the task, I’d like two hundred more."

“You ask a heavy price, but I will keep my word.” He untucks the strings of his pouch, coins jingling as he counts his wares. “This contains the one hundred that you seek. I will give you the remaining once I’m to verify proof of the boar’s death.”

“Very well,” I say, collecting the pouch before securing it on my waistband. “I’ll see to it today.” I’m ready to leave, but apparently this man has other ideas because he immediately touches my shoulder—gently as if he were cradling the broken wing of a baby bird.

“One moment,” he says—and something dawns on his face as he retracts his hand, clutching it as if it’s been burned, as if he's made some grave error in being so forward. “What family name do you carry, girl?”

“Ooe,” I tell him. “But you may call me Hanabi.”

He smiles that boyish smile again, “My family name is Daruma, but you may call me Yindo if it should please you.” And then he stops, taking a breath, cheeks flushing red as he takes a step back to bow, offering his greeting in all the wrong order. “I ask that you take care of your own when you return. I’d like to see you once that boar is taken care of.”

His proposal does not bring me any more pleasure than if I were to muck about in the rain with one shoe loose. Still, he is sincere—that much I cannot deny. There’s no mystique to his proposition, no sign that he has anything to hide.

“I’m afraid you must ask my father for permission. He lives in the mountains with my mother—you can find the smoke from his forge down the road.”

It’s as hard of a walk as any, but he looks eager and up for the challenge—and though I do not consider him a handsome man, the charm of his intensity is enough to make me smile too.

“My father always taught me to seize the moment when it strikes earnest and true,” he says.

I start towards the village, breaking into a slow jog as I glance over my shoulder at him, “And what about this would count as earnest and true?”

“You’re earnest—and I’m true," he calls out.

I try not to roll my eyes, “That always works for you?”

I’ve fallen into a very stupid, stupid trap, and though I find myself longing to stay to even the odds, I must take my leave towards the shrine where I find mother praying before a statue of one of the oldgods. I dare not disturb her, as I stop by the basin of water by the entryway. I take one of four dippers stacked neatly by it and wash my hands before I enter.

Mother stands from her perch, lifting the veil that covers her face, “How many times have I told you to keep your weapons outside? This is sacred ground, lest you wish to offend the gods.”

“Surely they have a good many other things to worry about. Even so, the gods can take offense all they like,” I tell her, sighing. “Their truths are not mine own—only their tools. And they’ll see to it that the black boar’s evil is vanquished.”

She stands from her praying mat. Blithely, she goes until she comes to a stop at the water’s edge. “The black boar? You seek it?"

“I do.” And then I reiterate my conversation with Daruma. “I intend to leave today.”

“If you slay the boar that evil inside it will simply find itself another vessel.”

“I know, mother.”

“And if it should take hold of another—”

“—bless the village tonight. Each and every one of them. Elders and children. Men and women. Bless them all.” And when she offers me a look so full of mirth and disgust, I go on. “You can have the reward. All of it.”

She pauses, thinking. “How much?"

“Three hundred gold coins.”

Mother takes a breath as I come to her and drop my arrows. She utters a prayer in the language of the oldword and dips each arrowhead into the water. Though I see no glow—no sign that they’ve been blessed—I know it is done and true.

And then she swabs my forehead with that very same water, whispering another prayer before meeting my gaze. “Remember what I’ve taught you, daughter of mine. Unlike men, boars and creatures of the night do not decide their own fate,” she says, handing me the arrows. “Only with foul magics does choice come to be—only with foul magics does decision come to speak.”

It is an old truth, one I have heard many, many times. “I know, mother.” I tuck the arrows back into my sling, wait for mother to resume her position by the statue, and take my leave.

*

The boar’s nest is a two-day hike, so I prepare myself a knapsack of figs, dried mackerel, and a canister of tea to bring on the way. I bid farewell to father, who tells me of a very familiar visitor who stopped by to speak not-so-earnestly about my beauty and fairness.

Father is always teasing and coy, but it belies some false sense of security too. I can tell his approval has not been earned, but so it is—a father’s approval is always something that requires an inordinate amount of coaxing. "Go right into day,” he tells me, offering me a smile before walking me through the door of his forge.

“Go left into night,” I say, mock-saluting him before bowing towards the road.

And so it goes—I make my trek up that old path I know so well. Past the stream and the family of fat toads, past the old graves of elders who’ve since been buried six feet under, past the line in the sand where the road ends.

When day turns to night, I find two separate flumes of smoke in the air. Two clans. The red of the Mako clan and the green of the Niihong clan. They laugh, they drink, and they jest, but neither seems aware of the other, camps spread far apart, invisible through the trees of the forest foliage. I can hear the Mako clan laughing, so I deign to join them in their festivities and cheery fervor.

The fattest one among them waves me over, sake sloshing clumsily around in that little cup in his hands. “You’re naught by a child,” he says, snorting. “Come—eat with us. Share our good drink.” They have a decent spread of good meats on the forest floor that I walk straight past as I take a seat next to him by the fire. “What brings you into these neck of the woods?”

“The black boar,” I tell him.

Again, he snorts, “You’ve been tasked as well?”

I recognize this man. His name is Kaori, an old war general who lives two villages over in the valley. I recognize him from the scar on his cheek and the missing gap in his front tooth. “Indeed I have,” I tell him, looking around his camp to see a band of merry men—some old, some young, some no more than boys tasked with carrying canisters of sake to serve. "I suppose you have as well."

Kaori hiccups, his drunken gaze resting on the two blades on my waist. “That _pig_ killed a girl just like you in my village. Found her body myself—eaten and maimed beyond recognition. Family wouldn’t even accept her as one of their own. Had to give her a proper burial myself. Y’know—in case that foul magic sought to spread in her rot. But you must know all about it, hunter that you are.”

“I suppose I do," I reply, finding it hard to get in a good word edgewise when all his thoughts are so drunkenly oblique.

“Now tell me—those stories of the dead returning without proper burial. That have any truth to it?”

“No, but it makes for a good story doesn’t it?” I smile. One of his little servants offers me a drink, but I decline. Stupidity is the liquor of lesser men. “Foul magic doesn’t propagate like that. It seeks balance, lest it runs out of food to eat. Should a plague of sickness kill a village, it finds no survival."

He considers it, quietly for a moment before moving on. “You’re young. Smart. Pretty. This boar is dangerous game. Eat your fill here and return when the sun rises.”

I start untucking the dried figs in my bag to eat, “I’ve already given my word.”

Again, he sighs, taking another swig of his casket of sake, “Words are just that. They mean nothin’.”

He looks tired, if anything, a little beaten down for the cause. I can see it in his eyes, that look of dread. It makes me pity him if only because I rather like him. "Do you have any children?" I ask, and whatever despondency he had immediately melts into something of cheer as he raises his glass.

“Me n’ my wife—we prayed for a boy, so the gods decided to give us four girls. Oldest just moved out of our home to marry. Second oldest has taken up prayer. A father who wields a battle axe and a daughter who’s pledged herself to the temple faith. Our youngest two can’t hardly sleep at night without the thought of that boar nestin’ in the woods.”

Ah, so that explains why he's so adamant about the black boar.

Eventually, he drinks himself to sleep—and finds rest among his brothers in the camp. Father used to say a drunken slumber was only useful for men when their enemies were also men. When I’m sure Kaori is dead asleep, I leave his camp and make my way towards the Niihong.

And I find that they do not drink but sit deep in prayer. Before them sits the remains of a doe, still bleeding from the neck where it was hit by an arrow. It’s wheezing, the last vestiges of life escaping its eyes as she searches for comfort where she can never find it.

“The gods will be pleased,” they cry.

I know now that I must find the boar before both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual i am on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if you would like to talk :D

**Author's Note:**

> hihi if you came from my haikyuu/bnha/reader-insert/fe3h fics, i just wanna say thank you for reading & i appreciate you so much
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if you wanna talk


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